


Strawberry Jam on Toast

by Sforzie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, M/M, bit fluffy, not exactly flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sforzie/pseuds/Sforzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes Sherlock eat breakfast. Toast ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Jam on Toast

**Author's Note:**

> My first little test foray into the world of Sherlock fanfiction. I'm still working on finding their voices, so this is mostly just bantering. Or bickering. (I swear, I would marry someone if they made me strawberry jam on toast every day, but that doesn't really have anything to do with this...)

It was morning, painfully early, the curtains only letting in a faint hint of the light to come. They had finished a case the night before, late, just before midnight. Sherlock had managed to already forget about some of it, but he still could recall that he had learned more about the differences between British and American squirrels than he had ever hoped to get the chance to delete. When they had returned to their flat, Sherlock had collapsed boneless on his bed, and awoken six hours later. He enjoyed that sort of empty, dreamless sleep--well, as much as one could enjoy any sort of lack of consciousness. After rearranging a few trains of thought in his mind, he had gotten up and made his way out into the kitchen.

John was already up, and he had prepared breakfast. When Sherlock tried to slip by into the living room, John unceremoniously shoved him into one of the chairs at the table.

“Eat.”

Sherlock stared balefully at the mug of coffee and piece of toast that John had set before him on the kitchen table. He looked over at John, who was holding his laptop and mobile phone hostage.

“Really, John, you’re older than I am. I would have expected you to be past this sort of juvenile behavior by now.”

“You know that line of insult doesn’t work,” John said. “We’re not on a case, you can take the time to stop thinking for two minutes and eat. In fact, if you would just shut up and eat, you’d already be back to letting your brain grind its gears.”

“My brain is all that matters, you know that. The rest is just--”

“Just transport, I know, I know.” John sighed. “Please don’t think I’d forgotten that already. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you aren’t stupid, John,” Sherlock said. “You just think differently.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

Sherlock gave a slight nod, and John sighed again. He set Sherlock’s phone and laptop down on the sofa and returned to the kitchen table. John sat across from his flat mate and looked at him intently. He picked up his coffee mug. 

“I know the rest of you is just transport,” John said. He nudged the sugar bowl next to the little plate with its lonely piece of toast. “But, you have to take care of the transport, or it can’t transport your brain.”

“Ever the doctor.”

“Yes, that’s right. Your doctor, Sherlock, as you like to throw at people who are trying to care about you. So, as your doctor, I’m telling you to just eat the stupid piece of toast. It won’t hurt you. It might actually help you. Carbohydrates are brain fuel.”

Sherlock fixed him with a doubtful look. “Brain fuel.”

“Yes. Carbohydrates provide glucose, which is the only thing the brain really likes to eat.” 

“So, you’re saying that in reality, zombies just are suffering from an insatiable craving for biscuits and tea?”

John chuckled. “I suppose so. The brain is naturally a very hungry, needy organ, and one as exceptional as yours must be constantly ravenous.”

“For thought, not food.”

“Food for thought, Sherlock.” John pointed at the toast. “You need one for the other.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed the line created by the finger before glancing back up to his friend. “Are you going to force feed me?”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Wouldn’t want to have to worry about catching something if you bit me.”

“I wouldn’t bite you.”

“I really wouldn’t put it past you.” John rested his hand on the table. “You can be quite childish at times.”

“You’re the one holding my mobile hostage.”

“You can have your phone and your laptop back after breakfast.” John waved a hand toward the couch. “The rest of the world can wait for two minutes. Just eat, and then you can ignore me and I’ll go away and leave you in peace.”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t have to go.” He hesitated. “I like having you around, John.”

“Do you?”

“Most of the time, yes. Just as I am sure you don’t enjoy having me around one hundred percent of the time, there are times when your presence is admittedly intolerable.” Sherlock ignored the half-hearted glare from his flat mate, instead choosing to focus his attention on the mug of coffee that had been placed before him. “However, I have found that, since you’ve come around, I think better. Having you with me is like having an external hard-drive. You think differently, see things differently, and you remember things that I’ve deleted. You poke me in the side when I don’t realize that I’ve got my foot lodged firmly in my mouth.”

“So, I’m useful.”

“Endlessly.” Sherlock picked up two sugars from the bowl and added them to the mug.

John took another sip of his coffee. “I see. So, what do you want from me, then?”

“Stay.”

“I am staying.”

“Forever, if you could.” Sherlock picked up his mug and drank from it, wincing at the flavor. “If it wasn’t too much of a trouble.”

“When have you ever cared about anything being too much a trouble for me? Sherlock, sometimes I think your only goal in life is to make things a trouble for me. To see just how much you can get away with before I get fed up and leave.”

“Oh, it’s not--it’s not intentional, John. I would hope you could realize that.”

“I do. That’s why I’m still here. Because I know you don’t mean it, and because I know you need me.” John snorted softly. “Sometimes I wonder how you survived three decades without me.”

“Got punched a lot,” Sherlock said. “Got thrown in jail a few times, did some things that would look awful on my record were Mycroft not around to... look out for my well being.” A wry smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips. He shook his head. “I suppose that was the best choice of words, John. In some ways, all I did was survive.”

“Then, what about the rest just being transport?”

Sherlock made an uncomfortable, half-thoughtful noise in his throat. “The transport is a faulty, imprecise, needy vehicle.” He picked up the lone piece of dry toast that John had set before him. It was cold now. “Don’t we at least have any jam?”

“I’ll get it.” John got up. After rattling around in the fridge for a moment, he returned with a jar and a knife. “Faulty as it may be, I still care about your transport, Sherlock.”

“Because you’re a doctor.”

“Well, not entirely just because I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock squinted for a moment, seeming to feign concentration on spreading a layer of strawberry jam on his piece of cold toast. “Because you’re my doctor.”

“Well, no, Sherlock--” John sighed. “I care about you and your bloody transport, alright? You’re my friend. I would go out on a limb and say you’re my best friend, but I’m afraid of heights.”

He looked from the toast to John and back. It seemed to take him a moment to get the joke. “Well, then, I suppose that explains why you aren’t taller.”

John hissed a breath between his teeth. “Yes, that’s right.” He gestured at the mess Sherlock was making. “I mean, look at you. Someone has to look after you.”

“And that person is going to be you, is it?” Sherlock returned the lid to the jar, and then wiped his fingers off on one of the paper napkins that John had left within reach on the table top. “Going to follow me around and make sure I eat and nag me until I sleep and put a plaster on my scrapes and kiss them better? I thought I picked up a flat mate, not my mother.” With this, Sherlock rather viciously stuffed the corner of his toast into his mouth.

There was quiet, aside from the sound of Sherlock chewing. John did not reply to Sherlock’s question. Instead he waited until his friend had finished half the toast and was washing it down with his coffee.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you quite done having a sulk about this? I’m not trying to impinge on your personal freedoms, Sherlock. I’m not your brother. I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my--”

“For how long?”

John blinked. “What?”

“For how long?” Sherlock waved a hand in the space between them. “Are you just here until something better comes along? Until you find someone you fancy a shag with and wander off with them?” 

“Sherlock.” John’s brows drew together. “I will stay for as long as you need me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course, really.” He sighed. “Besides, I’m quite certain you wouldn’t just let me find someone I fancy a shag with to wander off with. I have a hard enough time getting them to the shagging stage as it is with you running interference.”

Sherlock made an agreeing noise. “Seeing as you are my friend, John, I only want what’s best for you. And those girls aren’t it.”

“How would you even know? It isn’t like I go picking up random women off the street.”

“I know.”

“You’re usually pleasantly oblivious about those things,” John said.

“I suppose that makes you something of a hobby, then.”

John sighed, but said nothing in return. He watched Sherlock take another sip of coffee. Then he continued to stare, for what may have been longer than was socially acceptable between friends. Eventually Sherlock cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Well, it’s just, you’ve got a...” John licked his lips. A wry smile appeared on Sherlock’s mouth.

“Were you thinking about kissing me?”

“What? No. You’ve just got a bit of jam there on your chin.” John pointed to a spot on his own chin.

“Oh.” Sherlock picked up a napkin and wiped away the offending condiment. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure.” John looked away. He listened as Sherlock sipped his coffee. When Sherlock spoke again, there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Did you want to kiss me?”

“No, and I don’t know where you got that idea,” John said. He still wasn’t looking at his friend, and there was a touch of color on his cheeks that had not been present before. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said. He looked down at his plate. “After all, I should probably finish my toast first.”


End file.
